The Dark Bird Rises
by JohnDeanWinchester 2.0
Summary: Eight years have passed since the Batbird was last seen in Two Pines. Mordecai's alter ego is hunted by the law, and nothing-it seems-can bring him back. Then a deadly new threat appears, as if out of nowhere. Don. Huge, powerful, and terrifyingly methodical, Don is bent on spreading chaos and death. But after so many years, can the Dark Knight once again save Two Pines?
1. Prelude - Eight Years Earlier

I don't own The Dark Knight Rises or Regular Show

"Thomas was needed. He was everything that Two Pines has been crying out for."

Police Commissioner Benson Marin stood before a podium in front of the Town Hall where the late district attorney, supposedly martyred in the line of duty, had once fought for justice by prosecuting the city's powerful underworld kingpins. Somber dignities, including the Mayor, were on hand to honor his memory. A black funeral wreath framed a large color portrait of a handsome, young goat man with a tan coat and a winning smile. Thomas looked every bit a champion of justice in the photo, but Benson had seen his other face. Quite literally. The commissioner hesitated briefly, before continuing.

"He was...a hero. Not the one that we deserved. No, Thomas was the hero that we needed. Nothing less than a white knight. And always, he shone even in Two Pines darkest hours. But I knew Thomas. I was...his friend. And I know that it will be a long time before somebody inspires us the way that he did." Benson shuffled his notes together, anxious to finish his speech and get down from the podium as soon as possible.

"I believed in Thomas."

The words caught in his throat. He prayed that the people gathered in front of him would think that he was simply overcome with emotion. God help them if they could guess what was really going through his mind. That was a secret, he thought, one that he shared only with one other man, a man who had sacrificed his own legend to ensure that Thomas's would be preserved. He was a man whose face Benson had never seen. Two Pines true dark knight.

As he stepped down from the stage he'd spoken from, Benson looked out once more at the crowd that was now clapping it's hands in applause for him. _Is he watching us?_ he wondered, his eyes scanning the crowd. _Where is he now?_

_And will Two Pines ever see him again?_


	2. Enter: Don

**CHAPTER ONE - SOMEWHERE IN EASTERN EUROPE**

A land cruiser sped over a rugged mountain road, past rocky slopes devoid of human habitation. Scraggly patches of scrub and greenery dotted the barren gray hills. The cruiser had the road all to itself as it raced to make its rendezvous before the sun went down. It bounced over the rough terrain beneath a gloomy, overcast sky that was almost the same gray color as the hills. A keening wind whipped through the desolate peaks and canyons.

_A bad omen_, Dr. Techmo Blum thought. The middle- aged scientist sat tensely in the middle of the vehicle, flanked by grim-faced men armed with automatic weapons. More soldiers guarded the prisoners in the rear of the cruiser: three silent figures with hoods over their heads. They sat rigidly, their hands cuffed, under the watchful gaze of the guards.

Techmo squirmed uncomfortably, feeling more like a prisoner than a passenger. He ran an anxious hand through a mop of unruly white hair. Sweat glued his shirt to his back. _Am I doing the right thing?_ he fretted. _What if I'm making a terrible mistake?_

Other sounds began to be heard. Just when he had convinced himself that he should never have accepted the Americans' offer, the cruiser arrived at its destination—a remote airstrip overlooking a war- torn city. Artillery fire boomed in the distance, the reverberations echoing off the desolate hillsides. Sirens blared. The sounds of the conflict, which had been going on for months now, reminded Pavel why he had been so eager to flee the country for a safer, more civilized location. This was no place for a man of his intellect—not anymore.

The cruiser squealed to a stop, and the guards hustled him out of the vehicle. An unmarked turbojet airplane waited on the runway, along with a small reception committee consisting of a bland-looking man in a suit and a small escort of armed guards. Although the soldiers bore no identifying uniforms or insignia, Techmo assumed they were US Special Forces, probably from the CIA's own secretive Special Activities Division. The elite paramilitary teams specialized in sabotage, assassination, counter-terrorism, reconnaissance...and extractions. Techmo hoped he could trust them to keep him safe, especially after his recent narrow escape.

His driver shoved him toward the man in the suit.

"Dr. Blum?" The man smiled and held out his hand. "I'm CIA." He did not volunteer his name, not that Techmo would have believed him if he had. The anonymous American agent handed a leather briefcase over to the driver of the land cruiser, who accepted it eagerly. The briefcase contained more than enough funds to make this risky delivery worth the driver's while. He gestured behind him.

"He was not alone," the driver announced.

The CIA man spotted the hooded men in the back of the cruiser. He frowned at Techmo.

"You don't get to bring friends."

"They are not my friends!" the scientist protested. Indeed, he wanted to get as far away from the hooded men as possible. _You don't know what they're capable of doing!_

"Don't worry," the driver told the CIA agent. "No charge for them."

The American contemplated the prisoners dubiously.

"Why would I want them?"

"They were trying to grab your prize," the driver explained, smirking. "They work for the mercenary. For the masked man."

A look of excitement came over the CIA agent's nondescript, unmemorable features. He gave the prisoners a closer look.

"Don?"

The driver nodded.

"Get 'em on board," the CIA agent ordered his men, swiftly revising his plans. Clearly this was an opportunity he wasn't about to pass up. He extracted a cell phone from his jacket. "I'll call them in."

Techmo swallowed hard. He didn't like the way this was going. He shuddered at the memory of the attempted kidnapping, and at the very mention of his attackers' infamous commander. Don had become synonymous with atrocities, at least in this part of the world. Had it not been for the militia's timely intervention, he would now be in the killer's clutches.

Given a choice, he would have left Don's men far behind them.

Within minutes, they were in the air, flying low over the remote mountains in an attempt to avoid detection. Special Agent John Wilson checked on Dr. Blum, who was safely tucked into a passenger seat, before turning his attention to their prisoners. Beneath his cool, professional exterior, Wilson was thrilled at the prospect of finally getting some reliable intel on Don. To date, the notorious mercenary had defied the Agency's best efforts to neutralize or even co-opt him. They didn't even know what he looked like beneath that grotesque mask of his. The man was a mystery— with a body count.

_Forget Blum_, Wilson thought. _If I can get the 411 on Don, that would be quite the feather in my cap. There might even be a promotion in it for me. Maybe a post in Washington or New York._

The hooded men knelt by the cargo door, their wrists cuffed behind them. Special Forces commandoes stood guard over the prisoners. Wilson grabbed the first captive at random.

"What are you doing in the middle of my operation?" he demanded.

The prisoner kept his mouth shut.

_Fine_, Wilson thought. _We'll do it your way_. He hadn't expected the man to crack without a little persuasion. He pulled a semiautomatic pistol from beneath his jacket and placed the muzzle against the man's head. The prisoner flinched, but remained silent. Wilson decided to up the ante. He raised his voice so that all three prisoners could hear him even through their hoods.

"The flight plan I just filed with the Agency lists me, my men, and Dr. Blum here. But only _one _of you."

He threw open the cargo door. Cold air invaded the cabin as the wind outside howled like a soul in torment. Wilson grabbed onto a strap to anchor himself. He nodded at the Special Forces guys, who seized the first prisoner and hung him out the cargo door. The wind tore at his hair and clothing, threatening to yank him out of the paramilitaries' grip. Wooded peaks waited thousands of feet below.

"First to talk gets to stay on my aircraft!" Wilson shouted over the wind. He cocked his weapon. "So... who paid you to grab Techmo?"

The men remained silent. Don's goons were loyal, Wilson would give him that. He would have to push harder.

_Time for a little sleight of hand_...

He fired his weapon out the door, the sharp report of the gun blasting through the wailing wind. The SAD guys yanked the stubborn prisoner back into the plane, and then clubbed him with a baton before he could make a sound. In theory, the other two prisoners would think that their comrade was dead and thrown overboard.

Maybe that would loosen their tongues.

"He didn't fly so good," Wilson lied. "Who wants to try next?"

The Special Forces men shifted to the second hooded prisoner. Moving with practiced efficiency, they hung the would-be kidnapper out the door, high above the mountains. The drop was enough to put the fear of God into just about anyone.

"Tell me about Don!" Wilson demanded. "Why does he wear the mask?"

Only the wind answered him.

Frustrated, Wilson placed his gun against the second man's head. He was getting fed up with the prisoners' stubborn refusal to cooperate. Did they think he was just joking around here? He cocked his gun again, but still . . . nothing.

"Lot of loyalty for a hired gun!"

"Or," a new voice interrupted, "maybe he's wondering why someone would shoot a man before throwing him out of an airplane."

The muffled voice came from the third prisoner, who appeared larger and better built than the other two. Muscles bulged beneath his black leather jacket and weathered fatigues. He had the build of a bouncer or professional wrestler, and held his head high despite the hood.

Giving up on the second man, Wilson had the soldiers haul the useless waste of flesh back into the plane, and then slammed the cargo door shut to keep out the howling wind, making it easier to conduct an interrogation. It was time for some answers.

"Wise guy, huh?" He examined the third captive. "At least you can talk. Who are you?"

"We are nothing," the man replied. "We are the dirt beneath your feet. And no one cared who I was, before I put on the mask."

_Whoa_, Wilson thought, caught off guard. A peculiar mixture of excitement and apprehension got his heart racing. _Did he just say what I think he said_?

He approached the prisoner warily, holding his breath, and yanked off the man's hood, exposing a disturbing visage that Wilson immediately recognized from captured spy photos and combat footage. It was a face—and mask—that inspired nightmares in the bloodier corners of the globe.

Dark eyes gleamed above an intimidating dark blue mask that concealed the bottom half of the tall Raccoon's face, covering his nose, mouth, and chin. The mask, made of rubber with riveted metal components, was held there in part by a thick vertical strap that bisected the mercenary's brow and brown haired cranium. Two rows of coiled steel breathing tubes ran above and below some sort of built-in inhaler that covered the man's mouth. It gave his face a vaguely skull-like appearance. Pipes ran along the edges of the mask to a pair of miniature canisters at the back of his skull. Air hissed as he breathed. No sign of fear showed in the man's piercing eyes. He spoke calmly, and with complete assurance.

"Who we are does not matter," Don said. "What matters is our plan."

Wilson was fascinated by the man's elaborate headwear, which resembled a specialized gas mask. Was it there purely for effect, or did the breathing apparatus serve some vital function? He gestured at it.

"If I pull this off, will you die?"

"It would be extremely painful," Don answered.

_Good to know_, Wilson thought. He had no sympathy for the ruthless mercenary. Don was a bad guy who deserved to suffer. "You're a big guy."

"For you," Don clarified.

A chill ran down Wilson's spine, but he tried not to show it. It was important to remain in control of the interrogation.

"Was being caught part of your plan?"

"Of course," Don said. "Dr. Techmo refused our offer, in favor of yours. We had to know what he told you about us."

"Nothing!" the scientist shouted from his seat. He sounded absolutely terrified by the Raccoon's presence, even though the mercenary was safely in custody. Techmo's eyes were wide with fright. He called out frantically, as though he was pleading for his life. "I said nothing!"

Wilson ignored his hysterics.

"Why not just ask him?" he said, nodding his head in the scientist's direction.

"He would not have told us."

"You have methods," Wilson said.

"Him, I need healthy," Don explained. "You present no such problems."

The man's utter confidence was unnerving. Wilson laughed, mostly for his men's benefit, then glanced up as a deep bass tone rumbled somewhere above them. The unexpected sound penetrated the plane's fuselage, competing with the sound of the engines.

Thunder? The weather report hadn't predicted any storms.

A massive transport plane, many times larger than the small turbojet aircraft, descended from above. Its dull gray hull gave no indication of its loyalties as it drew dangerously close to the smaller plane. A ramp opened beneath the transport and four men dropped down, hanging from cables—two on either side of their target. They were armed and ready.

The rumbling grew louder by the moment. Turbulence rattled the plane, causing it to lurch to one side. Wilson struggled to hang on to his balance. He exchanged a puzzled look with the leader of the Special Forces Group, a sergeant named Rodriguez, who peered out of one of the plane's small windows. The soldier squinted into the fading sunlight.

"Sir?"

Wilson didn't know what was happening, but he wasn't about to show it. He still had an interrogation to conduct.

"Well, congratulations," he taunted Don. "What's the next step of the master plan?"

"Crashing this plane." Bane rose slowly to his feet. "With no survivors."

An armed man suddenly appeared outside a window, thousands of feet above the ground. Startled, one of the guards spun toward the window, but not quickly enough. Shots rang out from opposite directions as a pair of snipers fired through windows. Glass shattered and Wilson's men dropped to the floor. Blood and chaos spilled throughout the cabin. Death amended the flight plan.

_No!_ Wilson thought. _This can't be happening! I'm in charge here!_

Outside the plane, the other two men attached sturdy steel grapples to the fuselage. Thick, industrial-strength cables connected the two aircraft as one of the men signaled the crew aboard the big transport. Powerful hoists activated, tugging on the tail of the smaller plane that flew below. Groaning winches exerted tremendous pressure on the captured turbojet. Its tail was yanked upward.

The entire cabin tilted forward at an almost ninety- degree angle, throwing the CIA agent and his men off balance. Loose baggage and debris tumbled toward the front of the plane.

The CIA man clutched onto a seat to keep from falling, but dead and wounded soldiers plunged through the upended cabin, plummeting past Dr. Blum, who remained strapped to his seat. The frantic scientist tried to process these unexpected disasters, but things were happening too fast.

_I knew it_, he despaired. _I shouldn't have tried to flee. There was no escape for me. Not from Don._

Only the masked man seemed prepared for the sudden change in orientation. Falling forward, he wrapped his thick legs around the back of a nearby seat and seized the CIA agent's head with both hands. His wrists were still cuffed together, but that didn't stop him from cracking the American's neck as easily as someone else might tear open a candy wrapper.

The nameless operative died instantly, far from home.

Don turned the corpse into a weapon, dropping it onto a young sergeant, who was slammed into the cockpit door with a heavy thud. The sergeant's own body went limp. Techmo couldn't tell if he was dead or simply unconscious. Not that it truly mattered—the panicked scientist was too frightened for his own life to worry about some unlucky American soldier.

_Don will kill us all to get what he wants._

He stared down at the front of the cabin, which was now the bottom of what felt like an endless roller coaster. Gravity pulled on Techmo, and he propped his feet against the back of the seat in front of him, pushing away from it.

The plane shook violently—it was tearing itself apart. He could feel the destructive vibrations through the floor, the seat, and his spine. He was a physicist, not an aeronautics engineer, but even he knew the plane couldn't take much more of this.

The wind howled through the shattered windows. Staring through the broken glass, he saw the right wing shear off before his eyes. The plane lurched to one side.

_This is it_, he realized. _We're all going to die._

Outside, the four men climbed the tail of the dangling aircraft. They moved briskly and efficiently, carrying out their mission. The second wing sheared off, plummeting toward the unforgiving peaks below. A cloud of smoke and debris erupted where the severed wing hit the mountains.

The men quickened their pace. They attached explosives to the tail of the plane. Leaving little margin for error, they jumped away from the aircraft, swinging out on their tethers...

Don snapped the handcuffs as though they were cheap plastic toys. Opening his legs, he released his grip on the chair and dropped with remarkable agility down the cabin, somersaulting through the air until he reached Pavel, at which point he thrust out his arms to halt his controlled descent. He clearly knew just what he was doing—and what he wanted.

Techmo's eyes widened in fear.

A deafening explosion tore off the rear door of the cabin, nearly giving him a heart attack. Acrid white smoke instantly filled the cabin. Don's men dropped into the plane through the smoke, suspended on cables. Techmo watched anxiously, uncertain what was happening.

Was Bane here to kill him—or save him?

A heavy object was lowered into the cabin. A body bag, Pavel realized. Bane laid it out atop the backs of the seats next to Pavel. Is that for me? the scientist wondered.

Then he realized that the ominous black plastic bag was already occupied. Bane unzipped the bag to reveal the body of a stranger, who nonetheless looked vaguely familiar. It took Pavel a moment to realize that the dead man was roughly the same size and age as himself, with the same swarthy complexion, even the robotic arm and unruly white hair. There was even a distinct resemblance to their faces.

_I don't understand_, he thought. _What does this mean?_

Don didn't waste time explaining. He tore open Techmo's sleeve, then reached into a hidden pocket in his own jacket's lining, removing a length of surgical tubing. Hollow needles sprouted from both ends of the tubing. Don kept a firm grip on Blum's non-robotic arm. He palpated a thick vein at its crook.

_Wait_, Techmo thought. _Don't..._

But it was no use. Don jabbed the needle into his arm, expertly threading the vein on the first try. Techmo winced in pain. He had never liked needles.

_What are you doing?_

Swiftly taping the first needle in place, Don inserted the other end of the tube into the arm of the corpse. Dark venous blood began to flow through it toward the dead man. Confused and horrified, Pavel watched aghast as Don performed compressions upon the dead man's chest, _drawing the blood into the lifeless body._

The scientist felt sick to his stomach.

Less than a pint later, the obscene transfusion was over. Don withdrew the needle from Techmo's arm and gestured for him to apply pressure to the wound to keep it from bleeding out.

Meanwhile, an armed mercenary plucked the hoods from his comrades' heads, then took hold of the first captive and hooked him to a cable. He hung on tightly as it pulled them both up through the cabin toward freedom. Within moments, they had disappeared from sight.

_So there is a way out_, Techmo realized. Maybe there was still hope for him—if Don didn't kill him first. _I need to get off this plane before it crashes_!

The second prisoner, no longer bound, started to clip himself to a cable.

Don shook his head.

"Friend," he said gently. "They expect one of us in the wreckage."

The other man nodded in understanding. Without a word of protest, he unhooked himself from the life- saving cable. He clambered down toward Don and clasped his leader in a bone crushing hug. Then he pulled Don to arm's lenght. His eyes glowed with the fervor of a true believer.

"Have we started the fire?" the man asked.

Don squeezed his arm in return.

"The fire rises."

Evidently that was good enough, for the man handed Don the line. He clipped it around Techmo, checking to make sure it was secure, and then produced a knife that he must have taken from one of his men— or perhaps one of the murdered American soldiers. Techmo gulped at the sight of the gleaming steel blade, imagining it slicing across his throat, but Don merely slashed through Blum's seat belt, cutting him loose.

Gravity seized Techmo as he began to fall forward at last. He flailed in panic, searching for something to grab onto before he plunged to the bottom of the cabin.

_Help me_! he thought. _I'm falling_...!

They slipped free of the seats, hanging in the chaos, several feet above the cockpit doors and the bodies heaped there. Smoke and blood filled the cabin. Techmo wondered if the pilot was still vainly trying to regain control of the wingless aircraft. Loose bits of ash and debris blew against his face. His ears still rang from the explosion. His legs dangled in the air.

Don took out a small hand-held detonator, and looked him in the eyes.

"Calm, doctor. Now is not the time for fear. That comes later."

He pressed the firing button. Techmo couldn't hear the click over the roar of the wind, but he definitely heard the explosions that released the CIA plane from the grapples. All at once, the entire cabin dropped away, leaving them hanging thousands of feet above the mountains. The man who had sacrificed his life fell with what was left of the plane, along with the pilots and the dead bodies.

Techmo stared down at the heart-stopping drop beneath them. The wingless cockpit and cabin crashed into the rugged wilderness, throwing up a huge geyser of dust and rubble. Fuel tanks ignited, triggering a fiery explosion. Smoke and flames rose from the wreckage.

Techmo Blum, distinguished scientist and engineer, screamed in utter terror as he was hoisted into the sky.


	3. Thomas Smith Day

"Thomas Smith Day may not be our oldest public holiday," The Mayor declared, "but we're here because it's one of the most important.".

"Thomas's uncompromising stand against organized crime and, yes, ultimately, his sacrifice, have made Two Peaks a safer place than it was at the time of his death, eight years ago." Behind her stood a large mounted photo of Thomas.

A fashionable crowd filled the moonlit grounds of the Quintel estate. Elegant men and women, representing the cream of Two Peaks society, listened politely to the Mayor's speech as they mingled and chatted amongst themselves. Bright lights dispelled the shadow of the looming manor in all of its restored Gothic splendor, revealing not a hint that the entire edifice had burned to the ground several years before.

Expensive jewelry glittered on womens designer evening gowns who were escorted by men in tailored silk suits and tuxedos. Champagne glasses clinked. Waiters wove through the party, offering fresh drinks and refreshments. It was a beautiful fall night, and the weather was perfect.

"This city has seen a historic turnaround," the Mayor continued from her position at the podium. She was a lean woman whose wavy silver hair and surprisingly young looks had survived many years in office. "No city is without crime. But this city is without _organized_ crime, because the Smith Act gave law enforcement teeth in its fight against the mob.

"Now people are talking about repealing the Smith Act. And to them I say...not on my watch!"

An enthusiastic round of applause greeted her words. Everybody in the crowd had benefited from the city's improved climate. One could confidently invest in Two Peaks again, and expect to reap a handsome profit. Small wonder the mayor had been re-elected to another term (many people had lost count of how many that made).

"I want to thank the Quintel foundation for hosting this event," she continued, accepting the applause in stride. "I'm told Mr. Quintel couldn't be with us tonight, but I'm sure he's with us in spirit."

Or maybe he's closer than we think,

Benson thought. The commissioner sat alone at an open bar not far from the dais where the Mayor was speaking. He was an ex-Chicago cop, and he'd begun to feel the effects of middle age hitting him. Hard. Light gray gumballs appeared in his see through head.. His dark brown eyes scanned the roof of the manor, and came to rest on a lonely figure gazing down at the festivities from one of the upper balconies. The figure was still enough to be mistaken for a gargoyle, but Benson knew better. He knew a lurker when he saw one, and he suspected that the one he was looking at now was the owner of the very manor he stood in front of now.

"Now I'm going to give way to an important voice," the Mayor sang, snagging Benson's attention away from the shadow atop the manor. His heart sank, and he wished he had time to fortify himself with another drink. His hand rested on the speech he'd prepared the night before, and he unfolded them to review his handiwork one last time. He'd sweated blood into his work, every word from his heart, but he didn't know if he had the heart to read these words out loud.

Then, taking a deep breath, he braced herself for what was to come.

Oh God,

he thought, _Am I really going to do this? Am I going to go up there and say it, finally, after all these years?_

"Commissioner."

A hearty voice startled him out of his inner monologue, and Benson's head snapped around to gaze at the form of Donald "Alpha-Dog" Glover moving towards him. Judging by his unusually ruddy complexion, Benson guessed that Glover had already had a drink or two...or perhaps three. It was unlike the man, but, then, so was the event of Thomas Smith Day. "Donald."

The man glanced around the sprawling grounds, studying the gardens and statuary that adorned them.

"Ever lay eyes on Quintel at one of these things, man?"

Yep, he's definitely drunk,

he thought, and decided against mentioning the shadowy figure on the balcony. He shook her head.

"No one has," another voice said. "Not for years."

Skips Hamill, Benson's deputy commissioner, joined them at the bar. A large, burly figure, he was half a decade older than Benson, though he looked remarkably younger. He'd made a name for himself as Benson's Number One Assistant, a name that made her cringe each time she heard it. He himself didn't care. He looked extremely dapper for a man who spent his mornings and afternoons drinking coffee and his evenings stopping people from robbing the local bakery..

He listened again to the Mayor's voice as it drifted down from the podium.

"Hhe can tell you about the bad old days," she continued, apparently in no hurry to leave the spotlight. "When the criminals and the corrupt ran this town with such a tight grip that people put their faith in a murderous thug in a mask and cape. A thug who showed his true nature when she betrayed the trust of this great man." She turned to the portrait of Thomas. "And murdered him in cold blood."

Ignoring the Mayor's speech, Glover grinned as he spotted an attractive young server who breezed by bearing a tray of fried shrimp balls. A black maid's uniform, complete with a pressed white apron, cuffs, and collars, flattered the cloud woman's slender figure. She froze as the celebrity rudely grabbed her derrière.

"Sweetheart," he scolded her. "Not so fast with the chow."

Veeeery drunk,

Benson noted.

The server turned to face him, pulling herself deftly out of his grasp. A tight smile graced her face and hid the immense displeasure lurking in her large brown eyes. She held out a tray.

"Shrimp balls?"

Benson repressed a snicker.

The remark flew over Donald's' head as he snatched a pair of the snacks from the tray and stuffed them into his mouth. The maid swiftly exited the scene, not that Benson couldn't blame her. Celebrity or not, Donald wasn't a rapper anymore and he needed to keep his hands to himself.

"Benson Marin," the Mayor was saying, "can tell you the truth about Thomas-"

Glover noticed the papers that made up Benson's speech in his hand next to him.

"God, Benson, is that yo speech, man?" he said, spewing crumbs at him. "We gonna be here all night." Benson resisted the urge the smack him upside the head, and instead put the papers away in his coat pocket.

"Perhaps the truth about Thomas isn't so simple, Donald."

"-so I'll let him tell you himself," the Mayor concluded. She stepped away from the podium. "Commissioner Marin?"

Another round of applause rose from the crowd.

Well, here goes everything,

Benson thought glumly, and headed towards the stage, gulping down his drink as he went. He found it ironic that he felt like a convicted felon approaching the gallows as he made his way to the podium. He stepped up to the mike and took out the papers that contained exactly what the Mayor had said he had. The truth.

"The truth?" Benson repeated out loud, speaking to the crowd.

Without warning, an unwanted memory surfaced. He saw Thomas as he truly remembered him, as he would always remember him. The left half of his face was a burnt mass of scarred tissue and blood red muscle, creating an opposite color scheme to the tan blur right half of his once handsome face. His left eye, burning with madness, gazed out at him from a naked socket. He could see his exposed jawbone, revealed through a ragged gap in his cheek, and half of his smile permanently shone out at him through that gap, pearly whites glowing in the moonlight.

The right side of his face was just as handsome as the photo he could now see out of the corner of his eye.

He was no longer the park-intern-turned-district-attorney that amazed and inspired people everywhere. Now he was mad, and he had a gun pointed at Audrey , the one woman he loved more than anybody else. The woman stared into Benson's eyes, trembling and holding back panicked tears, even as Benson himself was pleading for him not to kill her.

Unmoved, Smith flipped a coin...

The memory was forced back down as Benson found himself back on the dais at the celebration for his wife's attempted murderer.

He wondered what would happen if he told them the truth. How _would_ they react, if they learned that, for eight years now, they had been celebrating a man that had murdered person after person to try and get revenge for a death that nobody he'd hurt was responsible for. Was it worth it, to clear his own conscience and weigh down theirs?

"I _have_ written a speech telling the truth about Thomas," Benson admitted, making up his mind in that moment. He folded the papers and stuffed them away. "But maybe the time isn't right."

"Thank Christ for that," "Alpha-Dog" muttered, loud enough for him to hear from the bar.

"Maybe all you need to know," Benson said, "is that there are a thousand inmates in Grey Fence Prison as a direct result of the Smith Act. These are violet criminals, essential cogs in the organized crime machine that terrorized Two Peaks for so long. Maybe all I should say right now about Thomas's death is this-it has not been for nothing."

The crowd applauded-all except the figure on the balcony, who silently turned and disappeared into the shadows of the manor. Benson watched him go, and sighed.

Can't blame him,

Benson thought. _I didn't say anything worth listening to._

He felt like a coward, and retreated from the dais without another word. Doubts tagged along with him, as they had every day for the past eight years. Had he done the right thing? Or had he simply not had the nerve to do anything?

He found Skips at the bar.

"Are the second shift reports in?" Benson asked.

"On your desk," Skips assured her. "But ah think you should put in more time with the Mayer."

Benson snorted.

"Sorry, that's your department." Skips was better at working City Hall (surprisingly enough), and stroking the egos of politicians. Benson preferred the nuts-and-bolts of old-fashioned police work.

With one last glance at the portrait on the dais, he decided he'd done his part of Thomas Smith Day this year (how he despised that name). So he headed for the gravel driveway, where a long row of spotless town cars waited for their passengers. He couldn't wait to get of here.

Every year, it just got harder and harder to handle.

"Alpha-Dog" watched Benson go, and shook his head. _He wants to leave this spread for work?_

"Has he even seen the crime statistics?" he asked.

Skips shrugged.

"He goes by his gut, and it's been givin' him nothin' but trouble these last few years."

"He must have one hell of an understanding with his wife," Donald said. He thought of his own, dear wife, and how convenient it had been that her modeling trip had been at the smae time as the ever-important Thomas Smith Day celebration.

"Nope," Skips drawled. "She left years ago. Just like when they first met."

"Hmmph. Well, she'll have plenty of time to visit." He leaned in toward Skips and whispered, "He's gatting dumped in the spring."

"What?" Skips looked astonished. "But, he's a hero!"

"He's a _war_ hero," Glover corrected. "Look around, Skips. This is peacetime. And besides, when he's gone, you get the job." He grinned at Skips, a gesture that Skips did not return.

Drawing his attention away from the black man, Donald looked out at the party, now in full swing, and smiled. He wondered again why Benson had decided to leave so soon before realizing something important.

Now, where did that ravishing little maid go?

She still felt his handprint on her butt. Each visit back to the memory drew up several pangs of unsettled anger. _I'll deal with him later,_ she thought. _Now, I have to focus._

She made her way back to the kitchen of the manor, where a small army of maids, cooks, and waiters were stomping around working as hard as they could to keep the guests well-fed and happily watered. She discarded the tray and entered the fray, blending in almost instantly with the rest of the staff. She overheard a small cluster of maids gossiping in the corner.

"They say he never leaves the east wing."

"I've heard he's had an accident, that he's disfigured."

The room abruptly fell silent when an older looking man stepped into the room, wearing a butler's uniform that appeared to have been specialized to match him. His white hair was hidden under a small hat, and he ajusted it before turning to the head chef.

"Mr. Le Grand," He said, addressing the man under the chef's hat . His voice seemed like that of a gentle British man. "Why are your people using the stairs,?"

Despite the gentle tone of voice, Mr. Le Grand muttered something incoherent in what sounded like French. He didn't bother to listen, instead watching intently as the old man set a glass of water on a large silver tray that had several large covered dishes on it. He glanced around the kitchen briefly.

"Where's Ms. Mild?"

The maid stepped forward.

"She's at the bar, ma'am," she said. "Can I help?"

The Lolliman sighed, and gestured to the tray. He pulled a brass key out of his uniform (it looked ancient) and set it on the tray.

"The east drawing room," he instructed. "Unlock the door, place the tray on the table, lock the door again." He paused, then added, "Nothing more."

The maid nodded, took the tray, and swiftly exited the room. She walked along the dark corridors of the manor, gazing at the antique-like items set along the walls of the house. It seemed less like someplace that somebody would live, and more like a museum.

She eventually found herself in front of a large wooden door, and slid the key off the tray expertly. She tried it, and the door swung open slowly, revealing what was obviously supposed to be a living area in the mansion. As a matter of fact, it looked more like somebody lived _here_ than in any other part of the mansion.

She set the tray down and gazed around the expensive-looking room. She saw no sign of anything alive nearby, including the house's mysterious and reclusive owner. She twirled the key in her hand, deciding not to leave just yet.

Her eyes locked on a door that had been left ajar on the other side of the room.

Well, what do ya know?

, she thought, and grinned mischievously.


End file.
